before published. Not improbably, the public may yet be gratified with
this collection.

Meanwhile, we sum up our sketch of Edward Caryl, by pronouncing him,
though somewhat of a carpet knight in literature, yet no unfavorable
specimen of a generation of rising writers, whose spirit is such that we
may reasonably expect creditable attempts from all, and good and
beautiful results from some. And, it will be observed, Edward was the
very man to write pretty legends, at a lady's instance, for an old-
fashioned diamond ring. He took the jewel in his hand, and turned it so
as to catch its scintillating radiance, as if hoping, in accordance with
Clara's suggestion, to light up his fancy with that starlike gleam.

"Shall it be a ballad?--a tale in verse?" he inquired. "Enchanted
rings often glisten in old English poetry, I think something may be done
with the subject; but it is fitter for rhyme than prose."

"No, no," said Miss Pemberton, "we will have no more rhyme than just
enough for a posy to the ring. You must tell the legend in simple
prose; and when it is finished, I will make a little party to hear it
read."

The young gentleman promised obedience; and going to his pillow, with
his head full of the familiar spirits that used to be worn in rings,
watches, and sword-hilts, he had the good fortune to possess himself of
an available idea in a dream. Connecting this with what he himself
chanced to know of the ring's real history, his task was done. Clara
Pemberton invited a select few of her friends, all holding the stanchest
faith in Edward's genius, and therefore the most genial auditors, if not
altogether the fairest critics, that a writer could possibly desire.